River
by Spirit of The Gauntlets
Summary: We are fools, very arrogant fools, to think that our influence has the power to change time. We are floating specks in a river too large to see, to understand, or to escape. TR/HG, hints of RW/HG
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: Harry Potter is the brain child of JKR. I'm only babysitting for a little while. HE'S NOT MINE, I TELL YOU!  
**

* * *

At first, they all stayed in Hogwarts because they had no other place to go.

Well, Ron did. But after everything he'd been through with his two friends he didn't want to leave them now. His family understood, though privately Hermione thought Mrs. Weasley only agreed because the rest of the family was also staying briefly at Hogwarts. Professor McGonagall and Kingsley wanted all the help on hand that they could get. The captured Death Eaters, the bodies of those who had fallen, the injured still alive, and those near death all needed attention. In the aftermath of the celebrating and feasting, everything about the castle seemed surreal. There was activity, there was happiness, but everyone still went around as if they were in a dream. She could understand that well enough, since the entire wizarding community in Britain had been living in fear for so long.

The chamber that hid the shell that was Tom Riddle was never mentioned, and no one went inside. Afterward, Hermione remembered that very clearly. He was dead, gone, they all knew it: everyone had _seen_ it. And yet, so great was the impact he had made in life - no one wanted to be near him in death. Kingsley had discussed disposal options with his counselors, but they did not share their plans with the public. The body of Tom Riddle was left alone, and when it disappeared no one asked questions.

One bit at a time, the immediate concerns of the leadership were addressed and put aside. The dead had been buried according to their known wishes in life, some with honor and some with relief. Not all of them had been fighting on Harry Potter's side. The giants, none of which had died though all of them were badly injured, were shipped back to their mountains. Azkaban, even without the dementors, which were fleeing to whatever hiding holes they could find, was the safest place for the captured Death Eaters. Countless muggleborns, released from the horrible prison, were eager to reunite with their families and do what they could to help. On the day they were freed and there was a celebration almost as large as the one held on the night of the great battle. For once, the entire wizard community was banded together toward a common goal: the fact that they were making progress was even better.

Hermione slept in the boy's dormitory for the first time in her life, that first evening. After months of constantly being in one another's presence, relying so heavily on one another, suffering and triumphing together, it seemed as natural as breathing to the three friends that they should not be separated now. Later she moved to her old four poster bed in the girl's dormitory, it was time to get back to business as usual, but the closeness that had intensified between the three friends was not lessened. Hermione was aware, even though several walls separated them, that her two best friends in the world were with her and, more importantly, _safe_.

Harry, Ron and Hermione weren't always together during their days. Harry was often deep in conversations with McGonagall and Kingsley, sometimes other members of the crippled Ministry joined them. Ron was with his family a good deal of the time, helping them all with whatever tasks they had been given. Hermione never did the same thing twice. One day she would be giving her opinions and advice to Harry and company on plans to round up escaped Death Eaters, the next she was working with Hagrid to fit stone rubble back into its place in a wall, and the day after that she was helping Madam Pomfrey in the hospital wing, which had been largely undamaged during the battle. It was widely known that she had skills in many areas, and as one of the heroes of the day she seemed to be needed in a great deal of places all of a sudden. For several long weeks Hermione was too busy to think about much except what was directly before her - or to get used to living a normal life again.

Normal… Well, as close to normal as things ever were in the wizarding world: especially a wizarding world recovering from a long, heavy siege.

As it turned out, the weeks passed by so quickly that at the end of two months Hermione found herself staring in shock at the calendar above her bed. Habitually, dutifully, she had ticked off each day as it went by, though she hadn't really counted them. One thought in particular made her insides squirm as she stared at the simple numbered grid that marked the passing of time.

She hadn't found time to track her parents down yet. _Two months_ and she hadn't even _started_ her search for them.

She'd had many demands on her time, to be sure, but really, they were her family. Even if they did not miss her, with their memories modified and new identities in place, she had as much of a duty to them as she did to the world that had adopted her. Determined to find them and bring them back safely, she firmly refused all requests and demands on her time. Harry and Ron wanted to come along and help, but she also refused their offers. This was something she started on her own, and had to finish on her own.

It took her a while to track them down. Her memory changing spell seemed to have done its work well, and that fact consoled her slightly when she had to face a total lack of recognition from the happy couple. It took quite a bit of doing, but she managed to get them to St. Mungo's. When Hermione had performed the charm she had had no choice but to give it her best shot and hope for a favorable outcome, since asking for help from a professional would have defeated the entire purpose of the process. She wasn't willing to take any further risks with her family, though, and she left the repairs to the capable healers who spent their whole lives performing similar tasks. The staff at the hospital, more than willing to help such a distinguished war veteran, assured her that in time her parent's memories would be completely restored. They were taking it slow to avoid any damage, but the last time she had visited her mother Hermione had been rewarded with the sound of her name and a smile from the woman. She cried during that visit, but only because she was so relieved that her parents were really coming back to her. Mrs. Granger seemed strangely puzzled, but had allowed Hermione to cry into her shoulder, and had stroked her hair and made soothing motherly noises.

After a long, long year of fading hope and desperation, it was incredible that so much could go so right all at once. Hermione was hard-pressed to think of happier times. She, Harry and Ron stayed at their school now because term would be beginning in less than three weeks, and they would all be finishing their interrupted education. Things were still a little patchy, in places the castle still bore scars from the battle, and new professors had had to be found on very short notice, but it didn't much matter. As long as a single student wished to learn, Hogwarts would be open to them.

* * *

Impressions of stone under her feet, but no real sensory input to indicate that it was there, a swirling mess of colors confusing her eyes, echoes of voices that had the fuzzy, uncertain quality of a memory. The words seemed to meld together, separate, and fuse into new combinations that should have made sense but didn't. It didn't help that they kept repeating. Confused, isolated parts of faces seemed to hover on the edge of her vision where she couldn't quite see them. Auburn hair, caught in sunlight, the line of a strong jaw and chin, a single eye that glinted from black to red in the briefest of milliseconds.

Sharp pain blasted into her eyes, blinding white light that made her yell and come crashing back into reality.

Thank God for the sun, Hermione Granger mused, rolling over in bed and raising a hand to shield her eyes from the onslaught of the morning. That had not been a pleasant dream. Groaning slightly, she sat up and rubbed her eyes. Thankfully, the angle of the window protected her from the sunbeam when she sat up. Wasting no time now that she was awake, Hermione slid her feet over the side of the bed and wiggled her toes into her slippers. It was a habit from days of living in a stone castle, one that she didn't really need now that she lived in a house with carpet in almost every room, but slippers were a nice thing to wear. She bent over and rubbed at her face, feeling her breathing slow as the last traces of the dream slipped between her fingers. Another one. This was becoming a real problem for her. It felt like she hadn't had a decent sleep in weeks. Well, now that she was up she might as well get herself together and get on with the day. Grabbing her bathrobe from the chair she had draped it over, she stepped out of the room and turned down the hall. Crookshanks was not on her bed, so he was either waiting by the front door to be let out or in the kitchen expecting breakfast. The latter proved to be the truth, and she set the cat's full food bowl down on the floor for him next to his self-filling water dish. She checked the charm to make sure that he wouldn't run out of water during the day before summoning her morning newspaper through the open kitchen window.

The first thing on her list, now that her cat was taken care of, was a pot of tea. Strong, _strong_ tea: she was exhausted. Lately, no matter how early she went to bed, she always woke up tired. Sometimes, though thankfully that hadn't been the case this morning, the sheets would be a tangled mess: as if she had thrashed around in her sleep. Hermione supposed that she was having bad dreams, but she could never recall anymore than vague, unformed images and impressions of strong emotions. The images and feelings didn't seem tied together in any way, they were more like random impressions she couldn't shake off.

While she waited for the water to boil, Hermione lit a fire on the gas stove she used to cook with. She had been discreetly researching safe ways to attempt technology/magic combinations - carefully staying within the laws set down by the Ministry of course, but so far had come up with no results. As she didn't fancy the idea of her kitchen appliances shorting out at inconvenient times, Hermione kept any equipment she needed simple and to a minimum. Magic did the rest. It wasn't a bad way to live, really: she was quite comfortable in her little one-story house. Crookshanks absolutely loved having the place to himself whenever she was out. Ron sometimes wondered aloud why Hermione hadn't built a bigger place when she bought her first plot of land, complaining that it was _weird_ to sleep in a guest room that doubled as a library, but space wasn't everything. Besides, she had very few possessions she needed to store. What space she had worked for her; and that was all that mattered.

A few eggs cracked and whisked together in a bowl with milk and cheese, poured into a pan and placed over the fire, and her omelet was cooking. By the time it was done the kettle was whistling. Sitting down with her breakfast, Hermione absently scanned the Daily Prophet for any interesting news. It had been almost two years to the day that Harry Potter had defeated Lord Voldemort, but now and then reports of Death Eater's being captured still turned up. Harry was working hard to make certain that Voldemort's followers were hunted down, one by one, slowly but surely. Whenever she could Hermione helped him and so did Ron, but thanks to his recent appointment as head of the auror office by Kingsley Harry had all the backup he needed. There were a few nasty rumors in dark corners, grumbles about the age of the new Ministry employee, but the majority of the wizarding community was perfectly happy about it. Who better to have in charge of their protection than the Boy Who Lived? Hermione's attention was mostly taken up by the Ministry these days as well; she'd gotten a job there in the Improper Use of Magic Office, acting as eyes and ears for Kingsley and Harry - both of whom were determined to stamp out the last traces of Voldemort that seemed to cling on in that office. Maybe it was the long-time presence of corrupt officials, such as the now-imprisoned Dolores Umbridge, stretching back to before Voldemort's conquest, but the Ministry was proving to be hard to clear out completely. Hermione stopped her thoughts from wandering too far into her job just in time. Today happened to be Sunday, her only day off, and she didn't want to waste it thinking about work. She was tired enough already.

Crookshanks finished his breakfast and leapt up onto Hermione's lap, curling up and purring. She stroked his head absently, rubbing behind his ears and running her hand down the length of his spine the way he liked. Her cat was growing older, he was past his tenth birthday now, but he was just as active as ever. He purred and purred, shoving his head into her hand happily, almost spilling her tea in the process. Thanks to her cat's affectionate behavior, Hermione's breakfast was quite pleasant. Perhaps her sensitive friend suspected she was feeling unwell. Hermione managed to relax and forget her restless night, and felt just as refreshed as if she'd had a week's worth of sleep. A good thing, too, because Hermione had promised to meet her parents for lunch and afterward planned on a trip to Diagon Ally.

Later, when she stepped out of the house, she didn't bother locking up. Her wards would keep out any unwanted wizarding visitors, and she lived in a low crime area: a very low crime area. Her nearest neighbors were a mile away, and _they_ lived on a rather large, sprawling farm. Hermione had never lived in the country before she moved out on her own, unless traveling around in a tent counted, but she found that she enjoyed it quite a lot. It was restful, all the trees and fields were very pleasing to the eye, and there was no question of being too far from her friends and family because almost all of them knew how to apparate. There was space for her small shed that doubled as a work area, and minimal risk of any muggles coming along at inconvenient times - further diminished by muggle repelling charms placed around the boarders of her property.

Living on her own had done Hermione a world of good. She'd changed slightly since her final year of school, finished the last of her growing, filled out from the unhealthy starved look she'd acquired during the war. Her face had lost all traces of childish roundness, though her features remained soft. Her hair was still a monster to deal with at times, especially if she spent too much time over potion fumes, but growing it out somewhat helped to weigh it down, and mostly Hermione managed to keep it under control. Out of a desire to appear tidy and professional at work she had become handy with a few charms to keep the frizz in check. Ron had actually complemented her several times, in his slightly awkward but flattering way. Stepping lightly down the stone pathway from her front door Hermione walked out past her gate to the dirt lane, an old maintenance road that passed her house on its way to the paved roads. The minute her feet left stone and hit hard-packed dirt, she turned on the spot and apparated.

After the slight pop of air rushing to fill empty space, a figure stepped out from behind one of the many trees around the area, accompanied by the smaller form of an animal. They walked slowly but with purpose to the path Hermione had just disappeared from, bypassing the skillfully placed wards as if they did not exist. Crookshanks jumped through a window that had been left open slightly for him to get in and out by, shook himself, and began to trot off on his own business. He stopped however, when he saw the newcomer. Tilting his head to one side, he seemed to think carefully for a long moment before gliding forward and twining around their ankles, purring rapidly and loudly. He was rewarded with a very long cuddling session before being placed back on the ground. He sniffed noses briefly with the other newcomer, which was more than twice his size though inclined to be friendly. Utterly unconcerned and seemingly satisfied, the fluffy orange cat went on his merry way.

The person he had greeted remained kneeling, and took from their pocket a stick of white chalk. Working fast, they drew a rough circle on the ground and wrote out a series of lines so quickly that it was hard to follow the motion of their hand. Once that was completed the chalk was returned to the pocket and a wand was produced instead. A few whispered words accompanied by a waving motion and the drawing glowed white hot. The addition of a strange substance, neither gas nor liquid, produced a bright flash before everything vanished into the stones. When the light cleared there was no sign of the spell-caster anywhere.

* * *

Automatically, as Hermione passed several cafes and ice cream parlors in Diagon Ally, she scanned them for Ron's distinctive shock of red hair. It was almost his lunch hour, and she knew that he liked to hang around sweetshops then. Somewhat disappointedly, she noted that he wasn't there yet. Maybe Weasley's Wizard Wheezes was busy today and he didn't have any break time. Oh well, she sighed, before perking up and setting off. Weaving happily through the crowds, Hermione made her way first to Madam Malkin's for new robes. Hers were wearing a bit thin, and Hermione always liked to appear tidy when she showed up at work. The shop was not crowded, though Hermione did end up waiting for a young woman buying a new set of dress robes. Having been fitted out with suitable business-attire, Hermione carefully slipped her purchases into the beaded bag she still kept out of habit. She didn't carry around much anymore, but the bag was very useful in its own right and she had kept it on hand for occasions when she had to transport large quantities of items at once. It was especially handy while shopping. A quick trip to the apothecary to pick up potion supplies and a nip into Magical Menagerie later, and Hermione was almost skipping down the street toward her last stop. She had been looking forward to this particular purchase for a long, long time.

The wand she had been using for the past two years was not originally hers: it had once belonged to the late Bellatrix Lestrange, one of the most powerful Death Eaters there had ever been. Things had been touch and go concerning her control over it, but she had finally won authority through sheer determination. A wand accustomed to Bellatrix Lestrange's tempers and values would submit to someone with enough strength to force the issue, and Hermione was no pushover. Though they had gotten used to one another, Hermione always felt a mixture of disgust and anger whenever she used the wand: remembering its deeds under its former mistress set in her a strong desire to set it on fire. Needs must, however and wands were expensive. All of her childhood savings had been used up buying food or being left in chicken coops to compensate for theft when she, Harry and Ron had had no other option. Hermione had had no money to buy a new wand, and Ollivander's wasn't even open yet when the war officially ended. Hermione knew the quality of wands made by the old man, and had refused to settle for any other wandmaker. Once the shop was open, again, the issue of price had come up. There were more important things that cost more money, and the wand situation had been resolved already in a way. So, buying a new one had been pushed off and off, until Hermione found herself with a job that paid well enough for her to set aside a little gold with every paycheck, and end up with enough money for a good quality wand.

The shop looked the same as ever when she reached it, and Hermione experienced a pang of regret and sadness. She missed her old wand, and wished very much that it could have been recovered. Hermione never did find out what the Death Eaters had done with it, but she suspected that it was lying in two pieces somewhere. Sighing, she stepped up, opened the door and entered the shop. It was quiet, as she had expected. The noise from outside shut off instantly as the door closed. There were the same old shelves stacked with row after row of boxes which, she knew, contained wands awaiting their owners. She smiled. Mr. Ollivander could always be counted upon when wands were concerned. The old man did not seem to be in the front room, but the shop was open so he must be here. She stepped lightly up to the counter and rang the bell softly.

A door in the back opened and Mr. Ollivander came up one of the rows. He looked frailer than the first time she had seen him, but more than a year in captivity could do that to a person. His eyes were certainly bright enough, and the look of pleased recognition on his face when he saw her was the same as ever.

"Miss Granger," he said courteously, "I did wonder when you would be back. I remember your wand was destroyed." Shaking his head sadly, Mr. Ollivander approached the front desk and brushed wood shavings off of the apron he wore.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Ollivander," Hermione said politely during the pause between his words, and then fell silent.

"I do wonder why," having set down the woodworking tool that had been in his hand, the old man was now pacing thoughtfully down the nearest shelf, "You have left it so long to replace your wand. Especially given the nature of the questions you and your friends posed to me last year." This brief mention of darker times, when living even a few more hours hadn't been certain, momentarily seemed to darken the atmosphere. "I know you are not unaware that a good match between a witch and her wand is important."

"A combination of unfortunate circumstances," Hermione supplied smoothly, not feeling particularly inclined to go into great detail. She had absolutely _loathed_ putting it off, thank you, but being practical had soldiered through. Being reminded of it was not pleasant.

"Well, no matter, no matter. We'll see if we can find one that suits you, young lady."

A little less than an hour later Hermione was stepping happily out the door with her new wand in her pocket: "Jarrah and unicorn tail hair, 10 and 1/4 inches, slightly flexible," to quote Mr. Ollivander. She hadn't even allowed the wandmaker to put it in a box and, wanting to be rid of the one she had been using, Hermione had given him Bellatrix's old wand, glad to be rid of it and not to have the task of destroying it herself. Whatever distaste and animosity she felt for the thing, it had eventually done work for her. Still, Hermione's new wand was a welcome relief, and there was no use pretending otherwise.

Except for her wand all of her packages were now carefully stored in her old beaded bag. She'd try out that new shampoo for Crookshanks when she got home, it was supposed to have been enhanced with a potion that lessened shedding. She was getting tired of vanishing cat hair off of her furniture and robes. A quick stop to buy groceries might also be in order, if not now then tomorrow at least, since her pantry could use a little sprucing up. Ron still ate nearly his own weight in food whenever he came around for dinner, but she didn't mind. With Harry being so busy at the Ministry these days, more often than not it was just Hermione and Ron spending time together. Even if they missed Harry whenever he couldn't make it, it was still nice to have alone time with Ron after so long. Pleasantly immersed in memories of their last visit, Hermione set off to complete her errands.

She was humming softly to herself when once more she walked down the dirt path to her home, her mood cheerful despite the return of her fatigue. She had several new books, one of them a muggle science fiction novel she was looking forward to reading in her spare time, maybe even tonight: it was early, she could have a long soak in her bath, grab a mug of cocoa, curl up in her favorite armchair by the fire and just _read_... She'd have to be careful not to stay up too late, though: she had dinner planned with Harry and Ron tomorrow. Since she hadn't made it to the store today, she'd have to stop by after work tomorrow. But it would be worth the hassle, since Harry would be coming along for the first time in almost two weeks. As these pleasant thoughts drifted through her mind, her foot touched the stone of her walkway. Hermione's next step brought her into the very center of the invisible lines drawn on the stone.

The effect was instantaneous. Hermione felt something, not with any of her ordinary senses but with that strange awareness humans sometimes have of things _extra_ordinary. The moment the tip of her foot touched the stone, something went _click_. It was inexorable, yet as soft as the closing of a book. Then the invisible chalk markings glowed with sudden, fierce, blinding light. Hermione gasped and tried to take a step back, raising both hands to cover her face and protect her eyes, but her foot met an invisible barrier, and the next minute all she was aware of was the pain in her eyes from the light. Pain. Sharp and focused as a set of ice picks. There was a distressing sense of motion, of traveling great distance at overwhelming speed, but her mind just couldn't process what was going on, incapacitated as it was by the white hot agony spreading slowly through her. It grew and grew until it was almost unbearable, no longer focused just in her eyes but through her whole body, and she couldn't stop herself from screaming as she blacked out.

* * *

New-grown grass had a slightly different scent from freshly-mown grass, but the two were very similar. Close enough that the scent reaching Hermione's nose was as soothing as a balm to her tortured senses. She could not remember exactly why she felt so horrible, and in truth she did not want to remember. It was far easier to lay there, with her face resting against the deliciously cool and sweet-smelling grass, on the farther side of the suffering she had endured. Remembering it would be acknowledging it, and that would make it real. She didn't want it to be real, it was too terrible, and she was so tired…

No, that was odd, she _wasn't_ tired even though her whole body pulsed with remembered pain. She ought to have been exhausted, because those funny dreams that weren't quite nightmares were disturbing her sleep. Her mind set to work analyzing this curious development, and that thought brought her short-term memory back in overdrive. Hermione suddenly opened her eyes and sat up, completely baffled by what she saw. Around her grass swayed in the bright mid-afternoon sun, green, thick and almost luminous in its apparent health. Behind her, though she did not turn to look, Hermione could hear the creaking of branches and the rustling of leaves. Ahead the ground sloped down slowly, rolling to a familiar and much beloved sight: a large lake, and next to it a castle she knew very, very well. Hogwarts. Somehow, by a method of transportation Hermione had never heard of, she had been brought within the grounds of her old school.

It was impossible. Her mind immediately rejected the thought. There was no way to just appear within Hogwarts' grounds - a person would have to bypass all of the age old, time tested, wards that had guarded the place for centuries. She hadn't touched a portkey or used the floo network… all Hermione could remember was that strange flash of light and the sudden pain that had come after it. Acting on sudden fear, she grabbed in her pocket for her wand. It was there, and her beaded bag was on the ground beside her. A quick check proved that nothing had been added to or taken from its contents.

She frowned, so the aim of whatever or whoever had attacked her was not robbery. But what could it be then? What purpose was supposed to be accomplished by bringing her here? Something about the light tugged at the corners of her mind, something about it had seemed vaguely familiar for an all too brief moment. What had it been? Why had it even happened? She leaned forward and pressed her face into her hands, willing herself to stay calm and think rationally. There had to be an explanation, there was always an explanation. Everything had a reason behind it. Rigidly controlling the panic that was threatening to creep up on her, Hermione slowly got her thoughts in order. She was at Hogwarts, at least, and not somewhere completely new and possibly dangerous. She could go up to the castle and explain what had happened to Professor McGonagall, maybe get some answers. There was no sense panicking. None at all. Vague disquiet at the time ate away at the calm Hermione had brought up: how long had it been? When that strange… event, she supposed she should call it, had happened it had been late evening. At least one night seemed to have passed: for all she knew, possibly more.

Hermione made herself stand up. The sooner she made it to the school the better. She didn't seem to have sustained any injuries, besides a few grass stains that were easily removed with her wand. Brushing her hair out of her face, Hermione made to set off toward the castle when a gruff voice echoed across the open grassy lawn - one she didn't recognize.

"Keep up there, lad. Don't fall behind!"

"No, sir. Coming, sir!"

A tall figure and a short figure stepped out of the forest a ways away from her. Hermione watched with a kind of terrified trance as they tromped off toward the castle. One, the analytical part of her mind remarked, was obviously a caretaker of some sort, judging by the spade he was carrying, and the one carrying vegetables must be his assistant. Neither seemed to notice her, and she did not move or call out to them. Her mind was racing at a frantic pace, trying to come to grips with what she was seeing. As they walked up the stone steps to the large front doors, Hermione took one slow step backward, _there_ _was no way_, then another, _it just wasn't possible_, then another, _it couldn't be possible! _before turning and running as fast as she could into the forest.

Hermione had only ever seen a young version of Hagrid once in a photograph he'd shown them, but there was really no mistaking him. Not when she knew him so well as an adult. _No, no, no, no, no, not possible, not possible. _Yet there it was. Irrefutable. Set in stone. She stumbled over a tree root, managed to avoid falling, and continued running as fast as she could into the forest. The only thought in her mind was to get as far away as possible, not to be seen. If it was true, which she hoped, prayed, that it wasn't, Hermione knew she should not be there. Even the sight of her could possibly change something vital and ruin everything…

Much as she hated to admit it, it seemed that she had not only traveled through space: somehow, Hermione Granger had also traveled through time.

It seemed incredible that after two years of everything going right, things could suddenly go _so very wrong._

* * *

Hermione was leaning with her back against a tree, pressing one hand into her forehead and thinking very hard. Reduce it to logic, she told herself, think - state the facts.

Somehow, she had gone back in time. Witness younger-Hagrid.

The laws of her time stated quite clearly that time travelers should be extremely cautious, and above all else should avoid monumental errors like killing their ancestors or giving people information about the future or… Slow down girl. Keep it simple.

Hagrid, though it was hard to judge with a boy his size, looked to be maybe 14 or so. From what she knew about Hagrid's time in Hogwarts, she suspected that a certain Dark Lord might be finishing his 6th or 7th year of schooling.

Given what Hermione knew about the future, what he could find out from her if she wasn't careful, this was a Very Bad Thing.

So, it followed logically that she had to find a way back to the future. Other than just sitting around and waiting for it to arrive, of course. That thought brought a slightly hysterical giggle from her, and the sound frightened her a little. She clapped a hand over her mouth, closed her eyes and took a very deep breath. Calm, girl. Calm.

The problem with that was Hermione had never read about or heard of a way to travel _forward_ in time. Anyone who used a time turner, the only known means of time travel, simply existed in the past until they caught up with their point of departure from the future. Besides, time turners were one-way devices. Traveling backwards was safest, because no one ever has any idea of what the future brings. You could appear in the middle of a house fire or an earthquake, a duel or worse. No one did it. No one knew _how_ to do it.

But it looked like she would have to. Staying in the past was not an option. Hermione refused to consider it. The thought of living without her family and friends, of going through the nightmare that was The Life and Times of Lord Voldemort _again_ was just intolerable. So, it looked as if she had to find a way to do the impossible and go forward in time. Right. Brainstorming was the next step, then.

Exhausted from her long run through the forbidden forest, confused, and more than a little worried Hermione slowly sank down into a sitting position. What to do, what to do. Out in the forest her options were severely limited. Aside from the potion supplies she had bought, it seemed like years ago now, Hermione had very little to work with. Added to that issue, she had nothing to research: only her own knowledge was available to her, and if the answer was there she was certain she would have thought of it already. Shelter and food were also a problem. Groaning, she pulled her knees up to her chest, wrapped her arms around them, lowered her head and tried not to lose her control. She felt like a child again, completely helpless, confused, with absolutely nowhere to go. The injustice of it all, her fear and confusion, all seemed to be battering down her already strained self control.

It was getting colder, Hermione realized, brushing the moisture she refused to think about from her cheeks. The light was dimmer, too. It must be getting late. Shivering, hugging her arms, she looked around. One thing was sure, she couldn't stay in the forest at night. It wasn't safe. Sighing, she got to her feet. London might be safe enough. She could blend in there. The Leaky Cauldron, maybe… If she kept to her room most of the time. The gold she had on hand wouldn't be enough for very long there, even with inflation taken into account. Well, a few days with a roof over her head and some privacy would give her time to get her head on straight. She could modify that new traveling cloak - add a hood. Pulling it out of her beaded bag, Hermione carefully ran her wand over the edges of the fabric, murmuring the words necessary. The task helped to focus her thoughts, and when she slipped it on it was with a calmer state of mind than she had had since she woke up on the ground.

When she began to turn to apparate to London, a thought occurred to her. Maybe the Leaky Cauldron wasn't such a good idea. Walking in there and trying to hide her face might be just as attention-grabbing as anything else she could do. Still, the inns that wouldn't question a concealed face were ones she _really_ didn't want to visit. Hermione thought carefully for a very long moment, before the answer came to her in one swoop and she actually smiled faintly before apparating away.

* * *

**What's that? A new story? Why yes. If you plan on running for cover, I suggest you do it now. Look, the Tom Riddle/Hermione Granger bug took a major chunk out of my arse. I'm just trying to get the story out so that it'll leave me alone. It burrowed into my ear canal while I was sleeping, and is threatening to eat its way into my brain tissue if I don't comply with its demands. ...Don't give me that look. It's true. I tried smoking it out with that silly MAGLOR owner's guide, and all it did was laugh at me and take a bite of my ear drum. My right ear may be completely useless now. **

**Jess, I know you said write the whole thing out first. I'm working on it, and at least the plot-notes are completely done. I'm not ignoring your advice. I'm just trying to get going before my inertia dries up.  
For my Kingdom Hearts readers, no I haven't given up on you. We won't go into that here, though, since it's a completely different fandom.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: Harry and all of his playmates are the sole property of JKR and whoever she choses to share with: I can't keep track of these movie rights, actors and crap. **

**Many thanks to those of you who reviewed, alerted and favorited. You all get a free brownie. Whipped cream handed out upon request.**

* * *

The Hog's Head pub was quiet when Hermione entered, but it was by no means empty. All of the conversations were being held in hushed voices, the groups sitting close together with their backs to the room at large. The light was dim, but she could see well enough. The room was mostly the same as it was in her time: dusty grey, with an aura of dirtiness. Still, Hermione knew for a fact that the barman, while gruff, was trustworthy. Aberforth Dumbledore had helped Hermione and her friends at his own risk when they had been in terrible danger, and even if his establishment wasn't her first choice it would do for now.

The tall, thin man was pouring glasses of firewhiskey for a pair of old witches who seemed to be negotiating prices on a batch of Venomous Tentacula pods. He looked much the same as he had in her time, except that his hair wasn't grey: it was a dark shade of brown. Hermione waited patiently until he was done and looked down at her with a grouchy frown on his face.

"A room, please?" She asked simply, keeping her voice low to match the tone of the general conversation. Even though her hood shielded her face well enough that only her mouth and chin were easily visible, it was still unnerving meeting a gaze like Aberforth's: so similar to his brothers, even down to the x-ray sensation. Grunting, the man nodded once before rummaging under the bar. He produced a key and dropped it on the counter.

"15 sickles a night," he said, his manner suggesting heavily that she should pay in advance. Hermione took the money from her pocket but held onto it for a moment.

"For room _and_ board?" A grunt was her answer, which she took to be an affirmative, and she placed the coins on the counter beside the key.

"Drinks not included," was his parting remark, "First landing, second on the left." With that, he turned away and began wiping out glasses. Hermione picked up the key and set off up the rickety staircase to the room she had rented. Well, she had enough for about a week. Her stomach tightened with anxiety at the thought. A week, and then she was on her own again - but without any money this time.

Don't think about that, she told herself firmly, get a good night's sleep and start planning in the morning. Somehow she would find a way out of this mess, even if she had no idea how she'd gotten into it in the first place. The method of her time travel was a mystery to her, but strangely that comforted her: it was possible to travel through time in ways not yet commonly known, so her task might not be as impossible as she feared. Hermione reached the landing and found the appropriate door, opening it to reveal a small, dingy room that matched the rest of the building perfectly. Grimacing slightly as she closed the door, Hermione unclasped her cloak and draped it over the wooden chair that sat in one corner. First things first, judging by the look of the bed she'd want to give it a good few _scourgifies_ before even sitting down on it. Whipping out her wand she performed a few choice spells until, satisfied, she sat herself on the much improved bed.

With a roof over her head and some privacy, and also having had some time to calm down and get her head wrapped around her bizarre situation, Hermione allowed her thoughts to wander. Her mother and father, Harry, Ron and Ginny were the first things that she thought of. She missed them all so much that it was like a hole in her chest. Harry had always been the leader, guiding their actions with his instinct and intuition: both of which had proved to be reliable. Although by no means crippled without her two best friends, Hermione did feel distinctly bereft. They'd always been together when things like this had happened. She missed Ron terribly, too. Ron who, even if he left them, always came back. Who was honest in his mistakes, sturdy in his support and his friendship. Now she didn't even have her cat to comfort her.

Sighing sadly, she wondered yet again why this whole thing had happened. Granted, some of the strongest and most devious of Voldemort's followers had yet to be captured, but Hermione was sure that if they had been responsible for this strange turn of events she never would have woken up. Or, if she _had_ she would have been a prisoner: a hostage to use against Harry. Maybe they were hoping she would blunder and reveal the future to their leader? If so, whoever it was hadn't bothered to do much research. She would never, ever, betray Harry.

Something different than the distress and confusion Hermione had been feeling stole through her. It was cold, determined, born of the anger she was beginning to feel at her predicament. Somehow, whatever it took, she would fix this. She _would _find a way back home.

* * *

A quick trip to the Owl Post Station, a few notes on public wizarding libraries within reach, and Hermione was off. With the start of a new day she found that the strange, calm, cold determination she had felt the night before had remained with her: if anything it had intensified. Grateful for it, she had donned her cloak and left another fifteen sickles on the counter of the pub on her way out, nodding to Aberforth who understood she would be back that night. She purchased parchment, a quill and ink bottle before, armed for battle, she disapparated.

Having always had access to the Hogwarts Library, Hermione often found herself grinding her teeth at the inadequacy of public libraries over the next few days. A routine was established immediately. Leave every morning at six when businesses opened, dropping money on the counter within sight of Aberforth. Spend all day pouring over books, taking extensive notes and copying pages onto parchment for later references. Come back tired and hungry late at night to find cheese and bread in her room. Eat quickly pouring over her notes, trying to theorize and draw connections, fall asleep well after midnight. Repeat. It would have been more endurable if she had been making actual _progress_. The only conclusion Hermione could come up with was that she was looking in the wrong places.

Amazingly helpful, that was. The less sleep she got, the more irritable and emotional she felt, and the less effective her researching techniques became. This, in turn, meant that she determinedly spent even more time on her work - and the cycle would continue.

On the fifth night of this, she found herself sitting on her bed and staring at the food left out for her. She was starving but couldn't make herself eat. A nauseating sensation of twisting and writhing currently had a hold of her innards, and she wasn't sure food would stay down. Two more nights… that was all she had money for, and she had absolutely nothing to go on. Looking away from the plate on her nightstand, her eyes found the cracked and tarnished mirror opposite the bed. The Hermione that returned her gaze looked unbelievably tired. There were dark purple patches around her eyes, evidence of her exhaustion, her skin was paler than normal, and a good deal of the life had gone out of her hair.

"You're a mess," she told herself absently, rubbing tiredly at her eyes. Her reflection only mimicked her action then gazed back with a martyred expression. There was no sense in denying it: she needed help, and badly. She couldn't do this on her own, it was driving her insane and it hadn't even been a week yet. A shuddering gasp traveled through her frame and Hermione bent over, resting her face in her hands and her elbows on her knees. Breathing deeply, she gulped and tried to hold back the sobs that were threatening her. She knew her emotional instability was due to her lack of sleep, but that didn't help; it never had. Hermione remembered her third year of schooling, remembered what she had gone through trying to keep up with her coursework, remembered what it was like to try and keep up with_ time_. It made her feel even worse knowing that _this_ situation could become more difficult than that living nightmare. The deep breath she had taken came out as a gasp, and she let herself fall sideways and curl up, crying herself to sleep.

Waking up the next day, she knew what she should do. It felt like she had always known, but hadn't wanted to do it. It wasn't that she didn't trust him… it was… it was…

The idea of seeing her old headmaster again was both a wonderful and terrible thought. Dumbledore had always seemed to be the one with the answers, after every battle, every hardship, right up to the day he died, Dumbledore had been steadfast and reliable. When Harry had been worried about Voldemort stealing the Sorcerer's Stone in their first year Dumbledore was what she had used to console him. When Sirius had been captured and was awaiting the Dementor's Kiss, Dumbledore had believed in his innocence and known to send Hermione and Harry back to save him - and had saved Buckbeak in the process. In their fourth and fifth years, Dumbledore had been the one who knew Voldemort was back, who had reorganized the Order of the Phoenix, who had been working to warn the wizard community and simultaneously to stop Voldemort's plans. Dumbledore had always known what Voldemort was or could become, Dumbledore was the one who had unraveled the puzzles of Tom Riddle's past and discovered the horcrux secret that had been buried so deep. Dumbledore was the one who had died doing his best both to protect and help Harry and to bring Voldemort down.

Dumbledore was also human.

It had been awful, finding out about his past from Rita Skeeter - of all the horrid people. The lies she had twisted from truth had been a constant torture to Hermione and Harry during Ron's absence. Though Hermione had steadfastly insisted that it couldn't be the entire truth, that there had to be reasons behind it, that Rita Skeeter was twisting things around to suit her own horrid agenda, it had been hard to stay confident in Dumbledore. Seeing the pain Harry had gone through made it twice as hard; and she had wished desperately that she could have helped her friend somehow. A difficult task, given that Harry's anger was reasonable for once. The only fact that consoled her was the very clear evidence that Dumbledore had changed: whatever Dumbledore _might_ have been in his past, he had changed.

While gratified to later find out she had been right, it was not comfortable realizing that the greatest wizard she had ever known was only human - and made human mistakes. What if she trusted him with this and he made another human mistake?

There was still no question that, if anyone could help her Dumbledore could. He was the greatest wizard of the age. But still, could she live with herself if she placed such a burden on his shoulders? The knowledge that she could show or tell him things about the future, how all of his efforts turned out, might be terrible for him, and she had no wish to present any temptations to him. Also… Hermione scrunched her face up and pressed it into her pillow. Losing the comfort and protection Dumbledore had symbolized, losing his guidance, losing the only wizard Voldemort had ever feared, had been an awful, crippling blow. For several years now, Hermione and those she loved had been dealing with that loss. The idea of having Dumbledore back was almost irresistible but… If she succeeded and went back home, it would mean losing Dumbledore all over again in a way. Keeping her distance meant that she could pretend nothing had changed, that he might have been dead already and she would never know the difference.

Punching her pillow in sheer frustration, Hermione realized that very soon she would have no choice.

Better to get it over with, then. It certainly beat another day of fruitless research. She sighed and lifted herself out of bed, preparing for the new day and whatever challenges it might present. She was halfway through raising her hood when a thought stopped her.

Bugger, damn and blast it, how was she going to contact him? What was she going to say? _Hello, Professor! I'm an ex-pupil of yours and I need some help getting back to the future. Mind lending me a hand?_ She laughed dryly at the thought. That was just _so_ believable, wasn't it? It'd be a cinch.

After serious thought, Hermione decided on a letter. It would be better than trying to march up into Hogwarts - she probably wouldn't even get past the winged boars at the front gates. She took a sheaf of her parchment down to the main room, which was almost empty this early in the day, and sat herself down at an out-of-the-way table in a corner. Sighing heavily, Hermione leaned forward and touched her quill to the parchment. The actual content of the letter gave her a bit more trouble. How to begin without sounding like a raving lunatic? Rubbing the end of her chin with the tip of the feather quill in her hand, humming thoughtfully now and then, she finally decided on something relatively simple.

_Professor Dumbledore,_

_To date we have not corresponded,_ _but it will surely come as no surprise that I have heard of you. I realize that you must be very busy, and as such I apologize for taking up your time. However I believe that you are one of the few people capable of helping me. If it is convenient to you, could we meet sometime in the, very, near future? I shall understand if you would prefer to name the time and place; I am open to any suggestions. If not I will be in the Hog's Head Pub for the next day or so, sitting to the immediate right of the door as you enter._

_Hoping to hear favorably from you,  
Hermione Granger_

Hermione didn't want to go into the details of her predicament in a letter: especially a letter sent by public owl. Too many things could go wrong. She also felt that her story would be more believable if delivered in person. Signing her name on the parchment made her uncomfortable, but adding it on might take away some of the suspicious nature of the letter. Gathering her courage, she got up from the table, left the pub and started the walk to the Owl Post station.

* * *

Having paid the charge and entrusted her letter to a tawny barn owl, Hermione returned to the Hog's Head. Aberforth raised an eyebrow at her when she approached the bar, and she ordered two bottles of butterbeer with some of her last remaining money. If Dumbledore showed up, the other bottle would be for him: it wouldn't do to forget her manners. If not, she suspected that she could find a way to deal with the extra drink. Sitting herself down at the table she had named in her letter, Hermione popped the top off of her bottle and took a measured sip. The drink gave her no pleasure, but it did help stop the shaking in her hands.

It was a long wait, it seemed like forever. With her hood up and her face mostly hidden, Hermione felt more comfortable watching the few other customers as they came in and out. Even if they all seemed a glum, unfriendly sort, there was sufficient variety to hold her attention. One man bore a striking resemblance to a vampire, while the next was covered head to toe with bandages. Remembering a similar figure that had reported her and her friends to the Ministry on another occasion, Hermione drew her cloak a little closer around herself and lowered her gaze until he left. It was frightfully dull, but she was unable to relax an inch. Judicious sips of her butterbeer kept her nerves mostly calm, but the tension never completely left her. What if the letter went astray? What if he wasn't in Hogwarts and the owl had to fly to some remote location on another continent? What if Dumbledore was so suspicious he decided not to even respond and just ignore the letter? He must get dozens of useless letters in the course of a week. What if he thought it was a prank? What if? What if? What if?

The door opened behind her, bringing a draft of air that smelled like the outdoors. Hermione had almost worn herself out looking up every time the door opened, so she did not immediately glance to see who it was. The moment the corners of her eyes caught sight of spangled midnight blue robes, however, her heart leapt up into her throat and she looked around so fast that her neck popped. Sure enough, there he was. His hair and beard were shorter, but his eyes were just as bright, as alive, as she remembered. Albus Dumbledore stood beside her table looking down his crooked nose and through his half-moon spectacles at her.

His expression was… interesting. There was no hostility: nothing in his face indicated a threat. There was, however, a certain amount of caution and not a little curiosity. Despite the non-threatening nature, Hermione got the very distinct impression that he was judging whether she was a danger herself. Several moments passed in which Hermione found herself quite incapable of saying anything, before Dumbledore spoke and broke the silence.

"You are Miss Hermione Granger?" His voice was calm, polite, just as it had always been when he spoke at the start or end of term feasts. Despite herself, Hermione had to blink away a hint of moisture from her eyes. This was no time for a loss of control. She stood up just as he finished and offered her hand, pushing back her hood with the other. She saw his gaze travel across her features, no doubt observing the very things she herself had noticed the night before in the mirror. Something in his face shifted subtly, and though it was hard to judge she thought that he looked slightly kinder than before.

"Yes sir, thank you very much for seeing me."

There was the smile that made his eyes smile, the one Harry had spoken about several times, and then she was shaking his hand. Hermione was not surprised by the strength in the fingers that gripped her own - she knew what the future headmaster was and could do.

"Would you, please?" She said, gesturing to the chair across from her at the table. "I didn't know if you would want a drink or not, so I bought a butterbeer." Her tone, Hermione was disgruntled to note, revealed some of the nervousness she was feeling. At least there were no other customers at the moment - the last had left several minutes before Dumbledore arrived. They both sat down at the table, Hermione wrapping her hands nervously around her own, empty, bottle.

"You said in your letter that you required help," Dumbledore said, his tone remained unchanged, though he did not immediately touch the bottle before him. "I assume that you are in trouble of some sort?"

"Yes, sir," Hermione answered, horrified at how small her voice sounded. She was unable to look up at Dumbledore, and instead stared at the glass bottle in her hands. "I… I realize that my letter to you was less than vague, and I am sorry. I just… I didn't know how…"

"To put whatever it is into a letter?" was the kind suggestion. She couldn't be certain without looking up, but Hermione rather thought that he was smiling. She nodded. "My, it does sound serious. How may I assist you, young lady?" Hermione thought very, very carefully about how to continue. Her knuckles changed to white as her grip tightened.

"I'm… researching time travel, sir."

"A complex, fascinating and often frustrating subject that has baffled wizards for centuries. Is there any particular reason for your project?"

"Yes, sir," Hermione swallowed against the hard lump that suddenly sprang up in her throat. "I… You see… I want to go home, sir."

* * *

As he was not the headmaster of the school, Professor Dumbledore's office was noticeably smaller than the one Hermione knew he would someday occupy. Still, it was pleasant enough. Not all of the silver instruments she remembered seeing once or twice were there, but a good deal of them were. He had the same desk, the same high-backed chair sat behind it. Red and gold hangings adorned the walls, and next to the desk on his perch sat Fawkes the phoenix. Hermione smiled at the scarlet bird as she sat in the chair in front of the desk. He observed her silently, but not unkindly, with one bright black eye. She could have sworn that he was smiling.

Dumbledore was seated across from her, his hands together just in front of his face, the fingertips touching. It was with a great deal of relief that she noticed that the suspicion was no longer so evident on his face. The fact that he had invited her within the castle also spoke volumes. Even though the school was currently closed for the summer, he wouldn't have allowed her inside if he had considered her a threat. It was a monumental relief not to be alone in her secret anymore, Hermione hadn't realized how much of her anxiety and stress had come from being unable to tell anyone what had happened to her. She did wonder a little why he had believed her so quickly. For now, Dumbledore was simply watching her.

"Professor," She asked, finally unable to contain her curiosity any longer. "I'm not complaining but, why - I mean, shouldn't you ask -"

"Ask you to prove your claim?" She could hear the laugh he had not released in his voice, and tilted her head to one side, bemused. "You already have, Miss Granger."

"How, sir? I haven't done anything."

"Gifted as I am, it is exceedingly difficult to lie successfully to me. It is clear that you certainly believe that what you have said is the truth," He tilted his head forward so that he was looking over the glasses perched on his nose rather than through them. "You do not show any symptoms of insanity, merely great stress, worry, and if I may say so an obvious lack of sleep. Added to which your memories have told me all I need to know."

"My memories?" Then it clicked, "Legilimency, sir? Is that it?"

"Indeed. Added to which, I have had reports on your activities this past week. The notes in your room were quite curious, if I may say so."

"My - my notes? Reports?" Hermione frowned a little in surprise, "Someone was looking at -?"

"Yes, Miss Granger. Forgive me for saying so, but you were a bit of an odd customer at the Hog's Head. A long friendship with the barman," Hermione smiled faintly at that, knowing what their relation really was, "Has given me an excellent idea of the usual traffic in and out of the pub. Most customers are involved in say, illegal potions trading. After a week of living there you had exhibited no such intentions and, it must be said, you piqued the barman's interest."

"If you know that these things happen, sir," Hermione asked, a little put off that she hadn't been able to keep herself as inconspicuous as she would have liked, "Why do you let it continue?"

"It provides an opportunity to monitor the activity and stop it at its source, my dear. If those participating in such illegal activities believe that they are able to safely do so at the Hog's Head those of us making an effort to stop them have an easier time of things. Just a few weeks ago, I believe, a gentleman was apprehended smuggling acromantula eggs into the country. His entire stock was discovered and confiscated." Hermione blinked, and then frowned very slightly. Acromantula eggs? Then was that the man who - ?

"I see that the incident is not unknown in your time," Dumbledore said gravely, "Yes, I believe that the man was the one who sold young Rubeus Hagrid his egg, though I cannot prove it."

"I thought Hagrid never told anyone about that!" Hermione was shocked, to say the least. Dumbledore merely smiled that enigmatic smile of his.

"To business now, my dear," His tone was slightly brisk now, and Hermione automatically sat straighter in her chair. It was a knee-jerk reaction after so many years of classes. "I should like to know everything you can tell me about what happened that brought you here."

"You'll help me, sir?" It was a foolish question, and she knew it: if he wasn't going to help her why would he have wasted any time on her? But Hermione couldn't stop herself.

"Of course, Miss Granger," and the expression on Dumbledore's face was so understanding, so kind, that Hermione almost felt like crying again, "Help will always be given at Hogwarts, to those who ask for it."

Fawkes sang out one bright musical note, and it seemed to hover in the air much longer than was natural, causing a warm sensation to creep back into Hermione's chest. It eased the tightness in her chest, smoothed away her worries, brought back some of the shine in her eyes: it was like hope.

* * *

_Merlin's beard_, Hermione thought to herself, _How did he get to be headmaster in the first place?_ The stone staircase stopped revolving and Hermione stepped lightly down off of it and out of the gargoyle's way. The statue jumped nimbly back into place and became motionless once more. Dumbledore, turning to look her in the face, chuckled at the expression she wore.

"Headmaster Dippet is a good man," He said, his tone sympathetic, "But he does take some getting used to."

"Getting used to?" Hermione repeated blandly, raising her eyebrows.

"Don't judge him too harshly, Miss Granger," Dumbledore said as they strode down the corridor toward the staircase, "By most accounts, the Headmaster does his job well. He upholds the rules and treats his students fairly."

"He seemed…" She faltered a little, unsure how much she could say about the man in front of Dumbledore. "Well… a bit… hidebound."

"Yes, the very traits that give him his desire to see order upheld limit him to noticing what is directly in front of him. In many cases I have felt that he lets matters drop simply because he is satisfied with the explanations presented to him."

From this, Hermione gathered that Dumbledore disapproved of more than one of Armando Dippet's decisions.

"In any case, let us not complain too much. He has gracefully allowed your appointment here, which is the most important matter."

"Yes, sir," Hermione said.

She hadn't been sure what to expect at first from Dumbledore. His suggestion that she enter Hogwarts under the cover of being an intern was not it. Though, now that she thought of it, it wasn't a bad cover identity. She knew enough that a job assisting in education wasn't beyond her capabilities; and it gave her access to most everywhere in the castle while also giving her a way to avoid mingling too much with the students.

"You'll have a week or so to adjust before term starts," Dumbledore was saying, "I'll be sure to have lesson plans sent up to your office in time for you to look over them. Of course, given that you will be assisting me and will need as much information as possible, you will have access to the entire library. Though may I recommend you chose what to read from the restricted section very carefully?"

"Yes sir, of course," there was no issue there. Hermione had seen what some of those books contained already. She had no desire to repeat the experience.

"You were a prefect previously?" He waited for her nod before continuing, "Then there is no need to explain the point system to you." She shook her head. "I shall be sure to make a note of that on your records when I pass them along to the headmaster tomorrow. Very well, a scroll with your schedule shall be delivered to you sometime tomorrow." They had reached a door Hermione remembered as being an unused classroom in her time: one of the smaller ones. "This will be your office, though I daresay it isn't very large."

"I don't need much space, Professor," Hermione said, which was true. She was momentarily surprised by the sound of her voice. Even to her own ears she sounded completely exhausted and not a little sad. Dumbledore turned slowly to look down her, his eyes had the curious quality Hermione was beginning to suspect indicated that he was using legilimency on her.

"You will be all right, Miss Granger," He said, placing one hand on her shoulder comfortingly. "The ones we love are never very far from us." Hermione nodded, looking down at the floor, her efforts the past week seeming to crash down on her shoulders. She was so very tired, and so very relieved. Someone _believed_ her, was helping her. Dumbledore released her shoulder before he smiled brightly, breaking the somber mood. "You may, of course, rearrange the furniture to suit your needs. Unless I am mistaken, I believe everything will have been brought in for you."

"Thank you, sir," Hermione said, meaning it to apply to more than the furniture in her new living quarters.

"Not at all, not at all. I shall see you in the morning, Miss Granger," With that he swept off down the corridor, nodding once in her direction. Several feet away, he stopped, seeming to remember something. "By the way, should you feel the need for a companion," Hermione looked around, raising one eyebrow curiously, "I have an acquantence who is a well known figure in the world of feline familiars. I would be glad to put you in touch with him." Then he turned around and really did leave for the night, his blue robes swirling behind him as he turned the corner.

That, Hermione thought, was _skill_. How had he known that she had been missing Crookshanks so deeply?

* * *

**No, no Tom this chapter. Be patient. Good things come to those who wait. *ducks rotten vegetables* Oh come on. Gimme a break, the bug is bad enough. *Bug snickers* Riddle shows up soon, all right?**


	3. Chapter 3

Having a secure living arrangement, being fed well-rounded meals, and having a much wider store of information at her fingertips did wonders for Hermione's outlook. She hadn't even started to peruse the restricted section yet: there were plenty of books open to everyone that had theories on time travel. She checked out most of them, taking them back to her office to study. It was a bit of a departure from tradition for her, but vague paranoia had begun to eat away at her thoughts. When the students arrived, one student in particular, she wanted to be in the habit of doing her research in a place that wasn't so easily disturbed. However much Hermione wanted to throw herself completely into her work, though, reality had to be attended to as well. Realizing that she had another top priority to add to her list, Hermione had grudgingly begun to budget her time very carefully. The first thing on her list was to memorize the new identity Dumbledore had crafted for her.

It wasn't too difficult; he had questioned her about her years of schooling, her family life, and a few other things. A lie based off of truth is that much stronger, and the end result of their efforts was such a solid composition that Hermione could probably have applied for a job at the Ministry without concern. She was a muggleborn who had decided not to attend school and had opted for a private tutor instead. Her academic records were the same ones she had achieved in her own time: even though she was still slightly ashamed of the few 'E's she had received on her OWLs and NEWTs, Hermione had felt it was best to be honest about it. She was studying under Professor Dumbledore to become a teacher and would be assisting several of the other Professors as well.

The other teachers seemed to like her well enough. Professor Slughorn especially, once he got a look at the paperwork on her academic achievements. It was a little strange thinking about her 'job,' one which put her in a curious position of being almost-but-not-quite on the same level as the professors of the school. She even had her own office, which made her want to laugh for some reason. It was small, as Dumbledore had said, consisting of a front room with a desk, a bookshelf and a few chairs and a back room just big enough for her bed and a wardrobe, but it suited her well enough. Being used to her country home the place felt a little cramped at first, but and at least she had windows, which helped it to feel roomier than it was, and there was no rule that said she had to _stay_ in her office. The books she borrowed from the library soon filled her shelf up. The desk, while carefully and neatly organized, already had the look of frequent use.

Hermione's dreams, strangely enough, were untroubled. Considering the tumult of the past few days and the unpleasant shocks, she should be barely getting any sleep at night. But no, the dreams had to pick now to quit. So, once Hermione finally managed to drift off each night her dreams were untroubled. But she was still certain that something about that strange light was familiar to her. Her mind kept coming back to it, as if something in her subconscious _insisted_ that that it was a clue of some sort. Of course, suspecting it was a clue did nothing whatsoever to help her.

Wrapped up in her thoughts, Hermione was distracted from the events going on behind her. When she finally became aware, it was almost too late. There was a moment of gut-wrenching horror as Hermione turned her head, seeing the leather bound book fall as if in slow motion, its cover flipping open, its pages flapping. Startled, forgetting completely that she was a witch and could have used her wand to stop the book, Hermione threw herself bodily from her desk chair and leapt to catch it. She succeeded, though not without scrunching up the carpet and giving her chin, stomach and elbows a good friction burn on the stone floor. She let out her breath in a great whoosh of relief and slowly got to her feet.

"Really, is this necessary?" Hermione asked in exasperation, growing tired of repeatedly catching the books that _belonged_ on her _shelf_. They were all library books, which meant that she was doubly careful with them. None had fallen in the past half hour, and she had been lulled into a false sense of security. Tapping her foot in an unconscious expression of great irritation, Hermione glared up at the source of her troubles, which stared evenly and quite serenely back at her. "You do realize that bent pages, warped bindings, torn covers and the like will not endear me to Mr. Deumont?" Mr. Deumont was the librarian; an improvement on Madame Pince without question, but still rather strict. Hermione's voice cracked with frustration, and she made a dismissive gesture with her hand before setting the book down on her desk. Carefully watching out of the corner of her eye, on the alert now, she remembered her wand the next time a book fell.

_Wingardium Leviosa!_ Hermione thought, flicking her wand, almost bored, catching and levitating the book to join its companion. She frowned up into the face of her new cat, and could have sworn that he was laughing at her. "One more book, mister!" The cat waved his tail back and forth slowly, before rolling over onto his back and allowing his head to fall over the side of the shelf. Ordinarily, the animal's large size would have prevented him from having enough space to do so, but by now he had displaced enough books to have a decent amount of room. Almost absently, his hind foot gently pushed yet another book off into space. For the second time inside of thirty seconds Hermione cast a hover charm to rescue a book. This time, however, when she set it down, she wasted no time talking to the cat: she stormed over, lifted him up underneath his two front legs, no easy task considering he was more than thirty pounds, and bodily removed him from the shelf. Quite unconcerned, the troublesome feline purred an odd triple-toned purr as she transferred him to the floor, where he wound around and around her ankles.

Not for the first time, Hermione wondered what on earth she had been thinking when she adopted the stupid thing. Very kindly, Dumbledore had arranged for an advance on her first paycheck. Aside from buying the supplies Hermione knew that she would need for the job she now had, she had also reluctantly taken Dumbledore up on his offer to put her in touch with his contact that bred cats. She had gone with him to visit the man. At first, Hermione hadn't been too keen on the idea. Thoughts of Crookshanks and worry about being able to take the cat with her if she found her way home prompted her to keep a fair distance between herself and the felines for sale. Still, it was a tempting offer. One cat in particular had seemed unduly interested in her.

He was a large cat, but beautiful in Hermione's opinion, even without the slenderness most felines had: he was more stocky than usual, built a bit like a bulldog with a barrel chest and thick, muscular legs. Grey and white, the animal had long, lustrous fur that reminded her painfully of her ginger cat. He did not approach her, but sat three feet or so away and simply stared up at her face, his head tilted to one side and his long tail slowly sweeping across the floor in a thoughtful way. When she noticed him Hermione was slightly unnerved by the level of intelligence in his yellow eyes - as well as the intensity of his scrutiny. A few minutes afterward, however, he had walked straight to her and begun twining sinuously around her legs: his head almost touched her knees. Shocking herself, Hermione had taken a liking to him. There was something about his actions, almost like sympathy and understanding, which drew her to him as he had seemed drawn to her. Hesitantly, Hermione had bought him.

She hadn't known at the time what she was getting herself into. That was three days before the start of the bookshelf incident. Presently, he still had no name. Hermione hadn't been able to think of anything that described him well enough. Added to which, he had slowly become so annoying that it was just easiest to yell "Cat!" when he pulled one of his stunts. She was slightly afraid the name would stick, but it was just so useful to have a one syllable word to get his attention, and he _did_ respond to it… sometimes… when he felt like it. Hermione ground her teeth.

Having finished trying to knock her off of her feet, the cat leapt lightly to the top of her desk, gathered his bulky muscles beneath him, and once again jumped to the top of the bookshelf. He also knocked off three books in the process, with what seemed like premeditated delight to Hermione. She was growing very tired of playing this 'game.'

"What is it with you?!" She demanded, placing her hands on her hips after rescuing the books. "Is it the shelf? Or do you just enjoy watching me make them float?" He perked his tufted ears at her, tilting his head to one side and observing her actions with that curiously _aware_ look that had first drawn her in. Very slowly, maintaining eye contact the whole time, he stretched his body out as far as it would go: knocking books off of both ends as he did so. Almost yelling in frustration, Hermione prepared to lift him down once again. This time he swatted at her hand with his paw, and quite deliberately head butted the last book standing off of the shelf.

Hermione did yell, that time.

"How many times do I have to say it? _You_," She pointed at the cat, "Belong down _here_," she pointed at the floor. The cat hissed at her, and when she made to pick him up swatted at her hand a second time: with his claws slightly extended.

Professor Slughorn, passing by Hermione's office on the way to the Great Hall for breakfast, was quite surprised to hear a very noisy stream of offensive names coming from the room.

* * *

Tom Riddle leaned his head against his fist, looking out of his window at the scenery passing by. The lanterns sliding past the window cast an almost eerie pallor over his face that made his eyes flash and his cheekbones stand out in sharp relief. Other than swaying occasionally as the train hit a bump or rounded a curve he was absolutely still - he did not even blink. The other Slytherins in his compartment were used to his silences and carried on as usual - swapping stories from over the summer and discussing upcoming Quidditch matches. Still, there was a subtle current of attentiveness than ran through all of them: it was clear that if Riddle so much as twitched his index finger they would leap to attention. Despite this, Riddle did not take the slightest notice of _them_ at all.

It was impossible to tell his thoughts as they pulled into Hogsmeade station, but there was a brooding quality to him that deterred any comments directed his way. Shouldering his bag, Riddle straightened up and, maintaining perfect posture, swept from the compartment. There was no shift in his features, no discernable changes in the angle of his eyebrows or the set of his chin, but his manner became much more innocent. The moment his feet carried him out into the corridor on the Hogwarts Express he lost that forbidding, almost dangerous, aura that had swirled around him in the compartment. He was only Tom Riddle: Head Boy, model pupil, polite, courteous, thoughtful, and brilliant.

Why ever would you think any different?

Stepping lightly down to the platform, Lestrange, Malfoy and Black trailing behind him like wingmen, Riddle glanced up and down the train station. The usual chaotic mess of students swarmed all over the place, but when he set off for the carriages they parted before him like the red sea before Moses. Ignoring the clear, carrying call of "First years, follow me, now!" Riddle chose a carriage and swept inside, still keeping silent, ignoring the skeletal Thestral pulling the carriage.

"I'm telling you, they've got no chance! Dumbledore made McGonagall captain. I mean, really," Black brushed his hair out of his eyes, a smirk on his face, "I always knew they took players on a sympathy basis, but a _girl_ for a captain?" He laughed derisively, "They must be desperate!"

"McGonagall hardly counts as a girl. I swear she's hiding something beneath those skirts."

"Still, there's no contest. We'll flatten them, even if we lost Rosier last year."

"We'll need good luck replacing him. He was a genius on a broom."

Refraining from rolling his eyes, Riddle crossed his legs elegantly and once again returned to staring out the window. He could see the outline of the castle on the horizon ahead, but the joy of his return was marred by a bitterness that made his lip curl. All his hard work, all his careful planning, all of it… wasted. Mudbloods still fouled the air of his beloved domain with their presence, the great serpent that was his legacy slept again: his only accomplishment was not to have been caught. Thanks to that meddling old fool of a transfiguration teacher he hadn't even been able to stay for his final summer, which had been the whole reason for his calling off the avenging Basilisk.

One day, he mused, raising one long fingered hand and stroking his index finger across his chin, one day he would return, not as a student but as a master. The unworthy would be purged and the purity of the school would be restored. Malfoy turned to Riddle, his mouth open, looking as if he wanted to say something - perhaps more speculation about Quidditch. Upon catching sight of Riddle's face, however, his words died in his throat. Slightly flushed, Malfoy seemed to flail around before coughing and turning away again. Riddle did not deign to notice his moment of uncertainty, and merely continued his musings.

The major concern of most of his fellow seventh years was not the major concern of Tom Riddle: NEWT scores, however much weight the rest of the world placed on them, meant little to him. He was perfectly secure in the knowledge of his capabilities, he knew his strength and how to control it: knew how to breath the merest whisper of power into a dust mote and alter its course in the air, he knew how to send an explosive force capable of crushing stone from the tip of his wand with the merest flick of his wrist. He knew what it was to hold ultimate power in his hands, power to give or take the life of another, and… his index finger slowly caressed the ring on his hand, he knew now what paths he must take upon leaving the school. All this nonsense about career advice and test scores, he snorted very softly, was only a necessary charade. Lord Voldemort needed no one's guidance; he was made to lead not to follow. And he would… soon…

Soon… He was patient. For now, he would wait… and plan.

* * *

"He does seem quite attached to you, Miss Granger," Dumbledore commented over his glass that evening at dinner. The cat was lounging at her feet, woven in and out of the legs of her chair and apparently asleep. She could hear his odd purr even from a distance. A noncommittal "humph" was her only response: the claw marks on her hand stung just enough to be thoroughly annoying, but not nearly enough to bother seeing a healer about. Dumbledore chuckled softly before letting the matter drop and returning to his dinner.

The great hall was buzzing with activity, full of students once again. It was an interesting experience for Hermione, being up at the staff table rather than down with the students. She was between Dumbledore and Professor Merrythought, the Defense against the Dark Arts teacher. The woman was obviously old, but she seemed to have the tough quality of seasoned leather rather than the frailness of age. On the few occasions that she and Hermione had spoken directly to one another Hermione got the impression that this woman was simply very, very tired. If the visible scars and pronounced limp the teacher wore were anything to go by, the woman had good reason to seek a quiet retirement. She was like a female version of Mad-Eye Moody. Well, unlike Moody, Professor Merrythought would likely be able to enjoy a good few years of her retirement; she didn't look nearly as feeble as some witches and wizards Hermione had met. Remembering the OWL and NEWT examiners, Hermione cringed. She'd have someone put her out of her misery before she got that _old_. There was living a long healthy life, and then there was clinging on until you lost all of your faculties. Shuddering at the thought, Hermione determinedly returned to her pork chops.

She very carefully did _not_ look at the Slytherin table all through the start of term feast, and did her best to ignore the curious glances thrown her way from the student body. As she was easily the youngest at the staff table, and as there were no staffing positions open, it was only to be expected and she was determined not to show how nervous and fidgety it made her feel. Still being young enough to feel slightly out of place talking to staff members as if they were her equals, Hermione kept her eyes down and focused on not bumping anyone's elbow or spilling something by accident.

When the golden plates cleared she looked up and, sure enough, Professor Dippet was standing. He was not as tall as Dumbledore, and he certainly didn't have the same gift for commanding attention without effort. Tapping a glass with his fork, he waited until the hall had fallen silent. Hermione felt obliged to give him her full attention, though his welcome back speech was not exactly interesting: it sounded as if he'd simply memorized it all. On the whole, it was rather like the speech Umbridge had given; delivered without conviction and wit a sense of getting things over with.

"To our returning students, welcome back. To our new first years, welcome to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. I trust that those of you familiar with the school will aide our newcomers as they find their feet." Absently, Hermione noticed a few eye rolls from older students and she couldn't help smiling slightly. "Please take note that a list of banned items may be found on the door of our caretaker, Mr. Pringle's, office." Professor Dippet waved an airy hand at the man who was standing by the doors into the hall. "First years, please also take note that you are not allowed brooms, and that the forbidden forest is off limits to all students. Third years wishing to be allowed trips into Hogsmeade should turn in their permission slips to their heads of house."

Hermione had a vague feeling that the man might slip something into his speech about her, and couldn't stop a small grimace from flashing across her face when she was proven right. "You may also notice," Dippet said, waving in Hermione's direction, "That there is another newcomer to the school. I am pleased to introduce Miss Hermione Granger, who will be interning under Professor Dumbledore this year. I expect each of you to give her the respect you would any member of my staff." There was a brief burst of polite applause, and Hermione raised one of her hands to about eye level in what she hoped was a polite salute. It was with relief that she heard Dippet finish. "Off you go, now. Lessons start tomorrow." With the usual ear-splitting sound of benches scraping across wood, everyone stood and began filing from the Great Hall.

Hermione remained seated for a while, running her finger thoughtfully around the rim of her glass. Cat leapt lightly onto her lap before clawing his way up to her shoulders and draping himself across them, leaning his head into the curve of her neck and purring so that her teeth clacked. It was an almost uncomfortable weight, but Hermione was in the mood to be grateful for the sentiment behind it. She absently raised a hand to stroke him, watching the prefects herding along the first years toward their new dormitories.

_You really shouldn't_, she told herself, and yet, despite this solid and sane advice, Hermione gave into temptation and let her eyes sweep across the hall. Plenty of students had black hair, so it was hard to pick one out that might fit the description she knew. When the last of them had gone, Hermione could only assume she had missed him. Well, when classes started up she could indulge her morbid curiosity further. Indeed, she'd have little choice then. For now, it was time to head up to her office. She wanted to look over a few more books before going to bed.

She stood up, but Cat showed no inclination to get down. Bizarrely, his weight on her shoulders comforted rather than annoyed her, so she allowed him to stay where he was. Not paying much attention to where she was going, Hermione let her thoughts wander on the way out of the hall. A hiss in her ear was her only warning before she rounded a corner and bumped into something soft and warm. A peculiar scent briefly graced her nose before she stumbled back; it was like leather binding, potion fumes, and something else she couldn't quite pin down mixed together into one. Wood shavings? No… something else. Then she was looking up into grey eyes and blinking rapidly in surprise. Her apology died somewhere behind her lips as her eyes slid over the high cheekbones, pale skin and dark, slightly wavy hair that framed the face before her. There was a flash of annoyance, but it was replaced so quickly by concern that she doubted she'd seen it at all.

"I beg your pardon," The young man said, concern evident in his voice. "I should have been paying closer attention. Are you hurt?"

Hermione's eyes flicked down to his chest where, sure enough, a bright silver and green Head-Boy badge shone in the torchlight.

"No," she heard herself saying, "I'm not hurt." Claws flexed into her shoulder, and she winced slightly. Stupid Cat. "I'm sorry. I'm the one who wasn't watching where I was heading." Hermione couldn't be sure, but she thought the he was about to say something else, so she quickly continued before he could, "Excuse me, please." She stepped around him quickly, and he graciously edged out of her way. Hermione did not turn back to look a second time. Cat, however, craned his neck around and stared at Riddle with narrowed eyes for as long as he could.

Tom Riddle watched her go with slightly lowered eyelids. His expression was blank but the tilt of his head indicated a mild interest. When she turned the corner, however, he continued off on his own route.

* * *

**Not much going on this chapter, and the Bug is not pleased with the length, but some important forshadowing was wormed in. Thanks to those of you who reviewed, favorited and alerted. You all get Valentine's candy: I bought it on sale, so I could afford more. ^^**


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